


The Eye of the Beholder

by raphae11e



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Body Worship, Bottom Harry Hart, Dirty Talk, M/M, Praise Kink, Riding, Sexual Tension, Sparring, literally just a fic about these two idiots staring at each other and then having sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-30
Updated: 2017-11-30
Packaged: 2019-02-08 17:14:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12869256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raphae11e/pseuds/raphae11e
Summary: Eggsy is provided with the opportunity of a lifetime: the chance to leave behind his rough past and shitty home life and become a Kingsman agent. Of course he isn't gonna pass up an offer like that.Now if only his mentor weren't so bloodydistracting;then he'd actually be able to focus on the whole "super secret spy training" thing.(Or, five times Eggsy finds himself staring at Harry, and one time it's the other way around.)





	The Eye of the Beholder

01.

Eggsy doesn’t mean to stare at first-- honest. But he dares anyone to try spending as much time as _he_ does around Harry Hart and _not_ stare at the bloke, because hot damn. _Look_ at him.

“I trust you still know how to handle a gun?” Harry asks him when he shows up for his first practice in the Kingsman shooting range.

He nods. “Course I do,” he says confidently, even as he cringes internally at the memory of his failed stint in the Marines.

“Then I’m sure you’ll pass with flying colors.”

And-- not to sound vain-- but Eggsy does. He allows himself to preen a little when Harry glances at his marks and raises his eyebrows, obviously impressed. Even so, if he’s learned one thing from Kingsman this far it’s that you have to be _better_ than the best. Despite his top-notch accuracy (second only to Roxy, surprising exactly no one, least of all Eggsy), he ends up spending a lot of time at the shooting range.

“A Kingsman works with a set of unique weapons,” Harry tells him one day, “and so they must learn to be uniquely equipped for such things.”

This lecture is a new one; Eggsy stands up a bit straighter, attentive, and asks, “This where I get to try out them fancy umbrellas?” He doesn’t bother to hide the excitement in his voice, or the grin on his face.

Harry briefly smiles back, clearly amused by Eggsy’s enthusiasm. “Not quite yet, _however_ \--” he presses ahead, talking over the groan of disappointment from his protégé, “you will learn to use the standard issue Kingsman pistol.”

From a nearby table he picks up one of the guns and hands it to Eggsy, keeping the other for himself. “They are held like a normal pistol, of course,” he explains, “but the catch is their ability to fire a single shotgun shell, for emergency situations.” He indicates the additional barrel beneath the muzzle of the pistol. “If you’re going to use the shell, you must adjust your grip.”

“Don’ wanna lose any fingers,” Eggsy says with a grimace, picturing the heavy recoil from a shot like that.

A noise of assent from Harry. “Allow me to demonstrate the proper form.”

It sounds like a great idea, in theory. Eggsy is definitely for keeping all ten of his fingers, and Harry’s a pro with marksmanship as well, so no doubt he can learn more than a few things from him.

The problem arises when Eggsy watches Harry’s fingers curl around the cool metal of the gun, and thinks, _oh._

Of course he’s seen the bloke shoot a gun before. The thing is, he’s never watched this _closely_ before, paying attention to how a weapon is cradled so deftly in Harry’s capable hands. Eggsy’s not sure if he’s mortified or pleased by this revelation.

After that it becomes infinitely harder to focus on Harry’s explanation. His brain is filled with thoughts of those graceful fingers, the curve of his knuckles, the bit of skin visible from under his shirtsleeve. He wonders what Harry’s hands might feel like on _him,_ and mentally kicks himself for it. Jesus, he needs to get a grip before his misplaced interest becomes too obvious. Harry is many things, but he’s not stupid, so Eggsy has no doubt that he’d instantly take note of any _physical_ reaction his recruit has to him.

 _Fucking ridiculous,_ Eggsy thinks desperately, trying to keep his expression neutral, _why can’t he be even a_ bit _dense._   

He hears the most important bits of Harry’s explanation, he thinks: brace yourself differently for this kind of shot, Eggsy, grip like this, yes, _perfect_ \-- but the rest of it is totally lost on him. Especially when Harry sets down his own pistol and comes to stand by Eggsy’s side, hovering there to correct his technique.

“Remember not to close an eye when firing,” Harry tells him, “and--” One of those gorgeous hands comes up to cup around his, fingers calloused from years of firing a gun, “aim a little higher.”

Eggsy nods, feeling suddenly weak at the knees, but when he pulls the trigger his aim is true.

“Well done,” Harry says warmly.

The praise affects him more than usual, face growing hot almost instantly. “Ta, mate,” he replies, going for brevity because he’s pretty sure his voice would shake if he said much more.

 _Shit,_ Eggsy thinks then. _I’m fucking screwed._

It’s probably no surprise that, once he’s back in his bunk that night, Eggsy thinks less of his success with the pistol and more of Harry’s hands: their warmth, their strength, and how they might feel pressing against his sweat-slicked skin.

 

\-----

 

02.

Hand-to-hand combat training starts just a week after marksmanship. If Eggsy had been pleased to show up all the other trainees (or “posh pricks” when he was talking to Rox) with the firearms, he is absolutely fucking _thrilled_ to wipe the floor with their rich, entitled asses.

“Not to seem rude,” Charlie says, which is how he starts just about every sentence he intends to be rude, “but I doubt Eggy here has much acrobatic skill beyond running. He’s done plenty of that, I’m sure.”

His lackeys-- because that’s really what they are, innit?-- guffaw at the joke, but Eggsy’s previously lazy grin goes sharp.

“Yeah?” he asks, but with only half the normal heat. “Come on then.” No need to get worked up; that would spoil the surprise. He has nearly ten years of gymnastics under his belt, plus the Marines, meaning he’s fairly certain he can kick Charlie’s arse into next week.

“Not yet, I’m afraid, boys.”

Both Eggsy and Charlie deflate slightly in their disappointment; leave it to Merlin to spoil a perfectly good fight. All of them fall into line easy enough, though, as their handler takes his place before them.

“Today is about teaching you a lesson,” he tells them all, “so I’ve brought along some help.” Something dangerously close to good humor shines in his eyes as his gaze focuses behind them, and they all look over their shoulders to see Harry stroll into the room.

“Told you I would be on time,” he says by way of greeting.

“And what a miracle it is,” Merlin replies drily. Then, to the recruits, “Everyone, this is Agent Galahad.”

Eggsy allows himself a quick glance at the others’ faces: all of them seem intrigued, but otherwise blank. _Of course_ , he realizes. _None of us ‘ave seen each other’s sponsors._ There’s no way they know Galahad as anything more than a codename on paper. They don’t know Harry Hart.

Of course, _Eggsy_ does, so he forces his expression into something a little more placid and focuses on their task.

“Each of you will have a chance with Galahad in the ring,” Merlin is saying to them. Eggsy’s stomach jumps at the thought, but he listens intently as the man continues. “I doubt that any of you will come close to beating him, but no matter. The goal here is to get a feel for a Kingsman’s fighting style, not to win.”

A smile seems to tug at the corner of Harry’s mouth, but he remains silent. His eyes tick briefly to Eggsy with a slight quirk of an eyebrow. Something tells Eggsy that the man is thinking the same thing as him: he’s already been exposed to a Kingsman’s fighting style, just a few weeks ago in the Black Prince pub. It had been fucking _awesome._

(Definitely sexy, too, but Eggsy wasn’t about to admit that to anyone here.)

“This is just practice, I might add. How well you do today may have a bearing on your marks, but will not subject you to elimination.” Then Merlin gestures to the locker rooms with a tilt of his head. “Go and get changed.”

Each of them has been provided with a locker and a set of more comfortable clothing: a simple white t-shirt and black track pants. Eggsy huffs out a laugh when he sees the Kingsman insignia embroidered on the right thigh. “Couldn’t resist, could they,” he mutters to Roxy, who smiles and rolls her eyes.

The sparring session ends up being one of the most exciting things they’ve done in training yet. One, Eggsy gets to watch Harry, dressed in a t-shirt and sweats just like the rest of them-- a sight that makes his head practically reel-- downright _destroy_ the competition. Charlie, to his delight, only lasts about a minute before he’s pinned. It takes a fucking ridiculous amount of willpower for Eggsy to avoid leering at him as he takes his seat, panting and red in the face.

Two, Eggsy has a chance to spar with Harry fucking Hart, unstoppable super spy and world’s most devastatingly handsome British gent. He lasts for several minutes, which is longer than Roxy, even. Part of him thinks it’s just because he knows Harry, has seen him fight before and so knows what to anticipate.

Well, to an extent, anyway. The match still ends with one of Harry’s muscled forearms pressed to his throat, and the weight and warmth of another body against his. Eggsy swallows hard, unable to look away from the eyes above him, so sharp and focused and-- if he didn’t know any better-- seemingly darker than usual.

Then from somewhere to his left Merlin’s voice says, “That’s a wrap,” and the spell is broken.

Harry pulls away, and Eggsy finds himself missing the sensation more than he probably should. He takes a second to just lie there on the floor and stare up into the bright fluorescent bulbs above. Once his composure has returned, and the imprint of the lights has been seared into his retinas, Eggsy forces himself to stand.

A hand rests on his shoulder, squeezing briefly. “You held your own,” Harry comments, voice once again threaded through with pride.

Eggsy sucks in a breath, exhales a shaky, “yeah.” Harry’s hand still hasn’t left his shoulder, _why hasn’t it left his shoulder._ In an attempt to redirect the conversation, he grins and adds, “Think I can kick Charlie’s ass, no problem?”

Harry smiles, and it reminds Eggsy of his own expression when faced with a challenge, easy and confident. “I don’t doubt it,” he replies.

Right, that’s it. He needs to get out of here before he actually fucking melts at Harry’s feet. The other recruits are beginning to clear out, and Merlin is already nowhere to be seen, so Eggsy jerks a thumb towards the locker rooms. “Gotta go change. Wouldn’t be surprised if Merlin had some other shit up his sleeve for us today.”

With a nod, Harry finally lets him go. Eggsy walks off the sparring mat about as fast as he can without breaking into a run.

When he makes it into the other room, he presses his head against the locker and lets out a harsh sigh. Roxy is still there too; she gives him a skeptical look that Eggsy sees out of the corner of his eye.

“You’re hopeless,” she sighs, closing her locker with a _snap_.

“Me? Why?”

Her expression flattens into something disbelieving-- but not lacking in warmth. “Harry’s your sponsor, isn’t he?” Eggsy nods. “Right. I figured that’s why you’ve been making heart eyes at him this whole time.”

Eggsy, despite all his attempts to remain calm, sputters out a defensive, “I have not been!”

Roxy remains silent, totally unimpressed.

It isn’t long before Eggsy caves under her stare. “...That obvious, huh?”

“To me, anyway,” she confirms. “But to be honest, the others are too thick to realize. And they won’t be hearing about it from me.”

Eggsy flashes her a grin. “You’re the best, Rox.”

His friend just smiles back, nudges him gently as she walks past. “Of course.” Then she’s out the door, leaving Eggsy alone with the silence and his thoughts.

Or at least, it _seemed_ like silence at first. From outside, though, he can hear the staccato _whump_ of something being struck. Quickly changing back into his street clothes-- winged trainers and all-- Eggsy steps out of the locker room to see Harry beating on a practice dummy across the room.

More importantly, he’s doing it _shirtless_.

There is a brief and terrifying moment where Eggsy’s brain just sort of shorts out. He’d thought it was a miracle to see Harry wearing anything less than a suit, and had nearly had a conniption over the whole workout clothes getup. But now, of course, Harry’s gone and made it _worse._ He has his back to Eggsy, shining with a thin sheen of sweat. The lighting makes it easy to see the curves and dips of the muscles in his shoulders, the taper of his waist, and when he pulls back his arm for another punch all that strength _curls_ under his skin.

 _Jesus_ , Eggsy thinks, eyes catching on the glint of thin, silvery scars littering Harry’s frame. He wants to learn where all the old wounds came from. He wants to learn how they feel-- are they raised and jagged, or smooth and straight, or a bit of both? And even more than that, he’d sort of love to find out how all that skin _tastes_.

Eggsy feels sort of dizzy, taking it all in. Probably a bad sign.

Because the world has always had it in for him, Harry chooses right then to turn around, noticing Eggsy’s presence with that weird sort of sixth sense he has. “Still here?” he asks, sounding vaguely surprised. “Care to join me?”

It takes longer than usual for his mouth to form actual words. “Nah, uh, thanks bruv but--” He glances at the door, feeling a bit like a trapped animal. Harry is watching him in interest, a hand on his hip, chest rising and falling with every rapid breath. “I-I’ve gotta get goin’,” Eggsy manages to finish. Mentally he curses himself for stuttering, and keeps on talking to try to cover up the mistake. “Like I said, Merlin’s got stuff planned and ah. Yeah.”

Harry, ever the gentleman, nods graciously-- even as his eyes glitter with some indescribable emotion, his mouth turning up in a smile. “Best that you don’t learn from _all_ of my habits,” he agrees, “and become chronically tardy as well. Merlin can only deal with so much stress.”

When he turns back around, the air in the room suddenly becomes breathable again.

Eggsy’s shoulders sag in relief. He takes a deep, calming breath through his nose and is infinitely thankful that the punching bag Harry has chosen is not in front of a mirror. The last thing Eggsy needs is to be caught ogling his mentor, his dick half hard in his suddenly too-tight jeans.

Needless to say, his exit from the room is very nearly a sprint.

 

\-----

 

03.

Turns out, another major part of Kingsman training involves underwater maneuverability. Eggsy muses that he probably should’ve guessed that; Merlin _did_ try to drown them all on their first day at headquarters.

There’s an indoor, underground swimming pool they’re shown about a month into their training, deep in the bowels of the Kingsman mansion. When they first step into the expansive room, Eggsy gives a low whistle.

“You lot ain’t wanting for anythin’, are you?” he asks, half to himself and half to Merlin, who’s standing at his right. “What else you got down ‘ere? A bowling alley?”

Merlin doesn’t bat an eye. “Interesting suggestion, Mr. Unwin,” he drawls. “Perhaps I ought to bring up your idea to Arthur. I’m sure he’d be intrigued to hear it.”

Charlie and his goons shove each other and exchange grins, like they think Eggsy’s just gotten some great reprimand. Eggsy feels like he’s beginning to understand Merlin, though-- as much as someone like Merlin _can_ be understood-- and is unfazed. The slightly softer edge to their handler’s words had betrayed his amusement.

 _He ain’t half bad,_ Eggsy admits. Well, apart from the whole nearly drowning thing. But everyone at Kingsman was a bit daft, weren’t they?

They don’t actually do any training in the water that day; they are told, however, that they are allowed access to the pool almost twenty-four seven. Who would be swimming in the dead of night is beyond Eggsy, but he supposes he appreciates the opportunity all the same. Maybe he can get a leg up on their training if he takes advantage of Kingsman’s facilities.

In the end, though, his first visit to the pool isn’t a planned one. It’s facilitated by something else-- something that, considering his _tense_ relationship with most of the recruits, he probably should have seen coming.

He wakes up to a rush of cold water pouring over him, and his first thought is _fucking hell, it’s happening again_. JB at his side, Eggsy is out of bed in record time. “Water!” he shouts, fighting against his now dripping wet sheets, he needs to warn the others--

Then he hears Charlie’s unmistakable laugh, catches sight of the empty bucket in his hands, and _seethes_.

“Come on then, eh?!” Eggsy spits, taking a step towards the other recruit, spoiling for a fight. It’s been a long time coming.

Roxy is at his side in a flash, one hand pressed to his chest. “He’s not _worth_ it, Eggsy,” she insists, even as he struggles to get past her. The other recruits laugh at her attempts to placate him; she throws them a fucking _evil_ glare for their trouble.

“Just a bit of a joke, Eggy. No harm done.” Charlie’s still got that fucking _stupid_ grin plastered to his face, and nothing would make Eggsy happier than to slug him across the jaw.

But no, Rox is right: they’re not worth it. No one who’s ever bullied Eggsy has been worth it.

With immense difficulty, Eggsy takes a few steps back and several deep breaths; realizing that the conflict is over, the rest of the recruits return to their bunks too. Only Roxy remains at his side. Turning his attention to poor JB, who sits shivering on the bed, looking up at him with doleful eyes, Eggsy sighs. “Sorry, bud,” he murmurs soothingly. He scoops the dog up in his arms, and his heart lifts a little when he’s greeted by a slobbery tongue licking at his face.

“You want to go find new clothes?” Roxy asks him. The “we” in her sentence is left unsaid but clearly implied. It makes Eggsy smile despite his lingering irritation, that she’s always got his back like that.

“Nah, Rox. You get some rest. I’ll go find somefin’.”

JB insists on being set down as soon as they’re out in the hallway, and Eggsy gladly obeys. He’s already freezing, skin prickling in the cold, especially where his sweats cling to his legs; holding an equally wet dog hadn’t exactly been helping the situation.

“Let’s go to the training room, yeah?” he says to the pug. He can grab his spare clothes from his locker, he figures. Merlin can’t be mad at him for that, as long as he gets everything cleaned and sorted eventually.

As they make their way down the corridor, however, Eggsy comes to stop in front of the glass doors leading into the pool. To his surprise, there _is_ someone swimming in the dead of night-- but Eggsy’s fairly certain that all the remaining recruits had been in the room when he left.

When he sees the person climb out of the water, something dawns on him. “No fucking way,” Eggsy breathes. Before he can think things completely through, he pushes open the doors and steps into the muggy, warm air of the pool room.

Harry turns at the sound; this time his expression is one of genuine surprise. “Eggsy?” he asks curiously.

Eggsy stops at the edge of the pool, offers up a grim smile. “Hey, Haz.”

Though he snorts in amusement at the nickname, Harry’s expression remains questioning. “What happened?” he asks, gaze lingering on the water dripping from Eggsy’s frame.

At first, Eggsy hesitates. He thinks that complaining about Charlie may come across as childish or petty, but then he remembers their sparring match.

(A hand pressed to his shoulder, a proud smile: “I don’t doubt it.”)

“These other recruits are such _tossers_ ,” he blurts out, more force behind the words than he’d intended-- and Harry laughs. He doesn’t think he’s heard Harry outright _laugh_ before, and it might just be the best sound he’s ever heard. Eggsy takes a few steps closer; he feels drawn to the man like they’ve got some sort of magnetic force between them. Something electric in the air.

“That’s exactly why you have to prove you’re better than them,” Harry says. His voice is strong, deep, and echoes off the walls of the massive room. He’s watching Eggsy with this _burning_ look in his eyes.

Harry’s confidence in him never fails to make Eggsy feel unmoored. He attempts a casual salute anyway, trying to break the weird sort of tension that’s settled over their conversation. “Yes, Sir,” he says dutifully.

It happens fast enough that Eggsy’s almost positive he imagines it. Harry’s eyes flash, his next breath sharp and the line of his shoulders tense-- and then he turns away, and the heat is gone. Eggsy is left blinking, feeling like something infinitely important has just happened, but he can’t put his finger on it.

“Seeing as you’re already wet,” Harry asks as he walks closer, closer, then brushes past Eggsy on his way to a nearby bench, “are you planning on making use of the pool?”

Eggsy huffs out a laugh. “Nah, bruv, I just need some dry clothes. Figured I would go to the…”

He watches as Harry picks up a towel, rubbing it across his shoulders and face and through his hair. Suddenly his brain registers that yes, Harry is even _more_ naked now than he had been during the sparring matches, and yes, his swimsuit is clinging to his body in all the right places.

“... to the training rooms,” Eggsy finishes lamely.

Harry makes a noise of assent. He’s still facing the opposite direction, so he luckily doesn’t see the way Eggsy’s eyes are fucking glued to his body. It’s probably more than a _little_ indecent that he’s lusting after his mentor-- Eggsy’s seen enough spy movies to know about the whole “relationships in the workplace” rule-- but he can’t bring himself to care.

 _Pretty sure his legs are longer than my life,_ Eggsy thinks faintly. God, he’s never been more okay with his height than now. He’ll take the sight of Harry towering over him any day of the fucking week, all broad shoulders and slim hips and strong thighs. Which, incidentally, look ridiculously good in the reflective glow of the pool lights.

He’s just about to picture what it might be like to be _between_ those thighs, but Eggsy manages to pull himself back from the brink of inevitable, devastating embarrassment. Wow, is the whole “get a grip” plan distinctly _not_ working.

“Take this, at least,” Harry says then, turning around and offering him a dry towel. His hair has started to curl a bit from the water. It’s a surprisingly endearing look on him, softening his face and making him look more approachable. Less distant and deadly and unattainable.

Still feeling a bit overwhelmed by everything, Eggsy nods mutely and starts drying himself off. And if Harry’s eyes seem to linger on the movement, following the drag of the towel across Eggsy’s skin-- well. The attention is anything but unwanted.

 

\-----

 

04.

“Now _that_ ,” Eggsy says, raising his glass for emphasis, “is how you make a proper martini.”

Sitting at his desk across the room, Harry smiles and raises his own drink in a toast. “I do hope you’ve learned by now,” he jibes-- but his voice is light, without judgement. “Any further attempts might be unwise.”

Trying not to look too put out at being cut off, Eggsy studies his martini as he swirls the last bit of it around its fancy glass. Harry is right, of course; he’d probably gotten a little too enthusiastic about learning how to mix drinks. First they’d tried something his mentor had made, which Eggsy had then attempted to copy. Needless to say he hadn’t gotten it quite right on the first try, so he’d tried again, and then _maybe_ he’d suggested that Harry show him a second time, just to make sure he’d seen everything right-- and so on.

So though it pains him to admit, yes, Eggsy needs to be done with the drinking for tonight. Especially since it’s becoming increasingly difficult _not_ to stare at Harry, who is sitting _right there_ and also _looking_ at him. That’s a recipe for disaster.

“Never underestimate the importance of the perfect martini,” Harry begins in his best “I’m about to tell you something really fucking profound” voice. He turns in his chair, directing Eggsy’s attention to one of the tabloid articles up on his wall-- or trying to, at least. Bit difficult to focus on anything but the way Harry’s dress shirt pulls tight over his chest. The way he tilts his head exposes the line of his neck, too, and Eggsy sort of wishes he was over there pressing his mouth just above that crisp white collar.

Harry’s voice cuts through his thoughts again, all crisp, clean syllables: “That headline there.” The way he says it sounds like he may be repeating himself, and _shit_ , did Eggsy really zone out for that long?

Rather guiltily, he raises his eyes to where Harry is indicating. “‘Mix Doctor’,” he reads aloud. “What’d you do there, eh?”

“I was assigned to attend a gala held by the Dutch Royal Family in Wassenaar. Naturally, my presence was necessary to prevent an assassination attempt on the reigning monarch.” Harry’s mouth curls into a smile as he glances sidelong at Eggsy. “The mole, posing as an Albanian ambassador, wasn’t quite able to hold the arsenic I slipped in his martini.”

Of-fucking-course. Harry has always had a flair for the dramatic. Operating at the highest level of discretion, his _ass_. “You ain’t plannin’ on pulling that kind of shit with me, are you?” Eggsy teased. He gave his drink a skeptical look for added effect. “I know I ain’t the best recruit, but that’s a bit much, innit?”

“Of course not, dear boy.” The term of endearment sends a shudder down Eggsy’s spine, but if Harry notices, he doesn’t comment. “I’m merely demonstrating how all of a Kingsman’s skills-- even this one-- can be employed while on the job.” His smile softens then as he studies Eggsy intently. “And of course you’re the best recruit,” he adds, sounding so _earnest_. “The ‘bit of rough’ has no effect on that.”

Eggsy huffs and returns the smile, trying not to look too embarrassed by the continual praise. “Cheers, mate.”

Harry says something else after that, but Eggsy gets a bit distracted again when his mentor turns back around to face him, settling in his chair. It’s a bit weird how, at this late hour, the bloke has still got his shoulder holsters on. He supposes that’s the Kingsman training though. Briefly he wonders if he’ll be the same way, sleeping with a knife strapped to his calf or thigh or hidden under his pillow-- but then his attention shifts _again,_ because wow, maybe Harry should keep those holsters on forever. They stretch the fabric of his shirt just enough that his pecs stand out, in perfect, stark relief.

For the upteenth time Eggsy is reminded of how fit Harry is, and it sort of makes his spine feel like it’s turned to liquid. Part of that is probably all the alcohol, but the other part is distinctly _not_. The thought of Harry bending him over his desk while still in that getup, holsters and all, makes his throat go dry.

“Eggsy.”

Harry is staring at him pointedly over his thick-rimmed spectacles (which add to the whole devastatingly handsome look, in Eggsy’s opinion). It’s the kind of expression normally followed by a serious reprimand or an exasperated sigh. Instead, once Harry is sure he has Eggsy’s full attention, his mouth curls into a smirk and he says, “My eyes are up here.”

Jesus Christ. For a second he just gapes, feeling a bit like a deer caught in headlights, because how the _fuck_ is he supposed to respond to that. Vaguely Eggsy thinks that, had he been a little more sober, he’d have already come up with some smart comment. As it is, though, his head is spinning (with a lot more than the alcohol) and his face is turning red and then he’s closing his mouth with a snap _._

And Harry, because he’s a smarmy _bastard_ , cocks his head just a titch and smiles sunnily, pleased with Eggsy’s obedience. He’s pretty certain Harry’s caught onto his hand thing now, too, because the way he trails one elegant finger around the lip of his glass is too sexual not to be deliberate.

 _Fuck this_ , Eggsy thinks. With the sort of courage and single-mindedness he attributes to all the alcohol he’s downed, he swallows the last of his drink and rises from his chair. The world doesn’t spin too badly, thank God, so he’s standing in front of the desk in just a few confident (if a bit shaky) strides. _Fake it ‘til you make it_ , he tells himself, because nothing has made him more scared than facing Harry now, the heat between them nearly palpable. Considering all the shit he’s been through, maybe that makes his priorities more than a little fucked up.

Still the very image of composure, his mentor looks up at him from his high-backed chair. His eyes tick back and forth, taking in every bit of Eggsy’s face, the taught line of his shoulders, the way his grip has tightened on his empty glass just a _bit_ too much to be normal. For a moment Harry’s gaze catches on the open collar of his shirt, lingers there before traveling up until their eyes meet once more.

Now that the tension is thick enough to cut with a knife, Eggsy drawls out, “Sorry ‘bout that, Sir.” Best own up to it, because yeah, he was staring openly enough at the man’s pecs that it probably couldn’t be passed off as unintentional.

He includes the “sir” for added effect; Eggsy may be predictable, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t observant, too. And sure enough, Harry’s next breath is just a bit harsher than usual.

They’ve both finished their drinks, he realizes then. He also realizes how close the two of them are, and how Harry is staring at him like he wants to eat him alive, and it is probably _not_ wise for Eggsy to think too hard about all of this while drunk. “I’ll ah, go clean these, yeah?” he asks.

Harry nods, offers up his glass; their fingers brush when Eggsy takes it, and it feels like he’s been shocked. With a parting smile, sharp and teasing at the edges, he turns on his heel and heads out of the office.

As he stands at the sink, it occurs to Eggsy that maybe it’s finally time to do something about all of… this. Whatever the two of them are.

 

\-----

 

05.

Harry has Eggsy pressed up against the wall of his foyer when he leans down and murmurs, “If there’s anything you lack, dear boy, it is most certainly subtlety.”

The words dawn on him slowly-- mostly because Harry’s got his fucking perfect hands curled around Eggsy’s waist and a thigh between his legs. “Wha’?” he finally manages to say. It feels kind of like he’s speaking through a mouthful of syrup.

There’s a laugh against the sensitive skin behind his ear, and God, he can _feel_ Harry’s proximity. He very nearly tilts his head to press their jaws together, to inhale the overpowering scent of warm wool and expensive cologne.

“I thought that, at first, perhaps I had imagined it,” Harry tells him. “After all, I would hardly expect someone as young and pretty as yourself to be interested in a man twice your age.” He puts emphasis on the adjectives, his accent curling around them, and something about that makes heat bloom in the pit of Eggsy’s stomach.

“You kiddin’?” he asks. It’s really too much trouble to resist any longer, so Eggsy presses a slightly biting kiss to the side of Harry’s neck. He gets a pleased, encouraging sound in response. “Harry, you _seen_ yourself?” Eggsy continues. “Besides, the age thing ain’t really a deterrent.”

(He’d like to add that he sort of _loves_ the age thing, but maybe it’s a bit early for that.)

“Well…” Harry draws out the word, like he really has to stretch to see why someone might find him attractive. It’s mostly for show, Eggsy can tell, which is both amusing and exasperating.

“Come off it.” He noses at Harry’s jaw, trying to get his attention. “Kiss me instead.”

Of course, he’s immediately taken up on his offer. Harry is a fucking amazing kisser, and Eggsy is sure that he can be sweet and slow and tender sometimes, but that’s not what he wants right now. He’s spent enough time staring at and thinking about this bloke; by now he’s more than a little desperate.

When teeth and tongues are introduced, Eggsy practically melts against Harry. He’s infinitely thankful that the man is so tall and that he supports their combined weight easily, because he’s not sure if he can stay coordinated when he’s being kissed like _this._ Just like he is with all things, Harry is thorough and almost painfully focused, taking Eggsy apart bit by bit. Everything feels fuzzy and at the same time too sharp: he’s aware of each place where their bodies are pressed together. Chest to chest, a hand in his hair now, another fisted in the back of his shirt-- too much, too much.

“Harry,” Eggsy gasps out, “Harry, wait--”

Instantly his mentor stills; his breathing is a fraction more uneven than usual, which makes Eggsy more than a little bit proud. But then Harry starts to pull away, too, leaving him shivering in the wake of all that body heat.

“No, wait--” It’s still sort of hard to think around all the lust swaddling his brain, but Eggsy makes an attempt at coherence. “Hang _on_ ,” he says, words caught around a laugh, “don’ want you to back off completely. Jus’--” His breath shudders in his chest as he looks up into deep brown eyes, darkened with lust. “Jus’ gimme a sec.”

Harry relaxes against him and smiles. “Of course,” he replies, before promptly lowering his head to mouth at Eggsy’s neck.

Inhaling sharply, Eggsy tightens his grip on Harry’s arms and tips his head back invitingly. “ _Je_ sus,” he breathes out. “Yeah tha’s-- tha’s fine.”

“More than fine, I should think.” The leg between his thighs suddenly _presses_ , rubbing against the bulge in his jeans. Eggsy is painfully reminded of how hard he is-- makes a mental note to buy pants that are a little less tight-- and groans.

“You _git,_ ” Eggsy says lovingly. “Gotta give me more than that.”

He can feel the curve of Harry’s smile against his throat. “But I thought you wanted a break?”

Oh, it is _on._ Harry doesn’t get to be the cheeky one in this scenario, not when Eggsy’s spent the past fucking _month_ dropping coy hints left and right. No, being cheeky is _his_ job.

When there’s a second languid roll of their hips-- and of course Eggsy notes the hot line of Harry’s own cock, trapped beneath those fancy dress slacks-- he gets an idea. Now that he’s finally able to _touch_ his mentor, after far too long of just staring at him from various angles, he has to take advantage. So Eggsy reaches around Harry’s trim waist and grabs two fistfuls of his perfect ass and _squeezes_.

Harry tenses against him and bites out a curse from between clenched teeth, his next kiss to Eggsy’s neck a bit harsher than necessary. “Tart,” he growls.

“Don’ act like you don’t love it.” Harry makes a noise of grudging assent and-- to Eggsy’s delight-- pushes back into his grasp and shudders. Even through the expensive fabric his skin is heating up from the rough handling. Fuck, if that isn’t a lovely image, and Eggsy sighs almost dreamily as he thinks of how nice it’d be to get a proper look at this particular _asset_ of Harry’s.

He narrowly avoids making a pun, then, and only because he’s fairly certain that Harry might straight up walk away after hearing a joke that bad. _Better not to risk it_ , he thinks with a grin.

Instead Eggsy’s thoughts turn to other things; his mind is focused entirely on the way Harry rolls his hips forward against his own and then back into his waiting hands. It’s a comforting rhythm, almost-- almost _greedy._ And then Eggsy gets yet another fucking fantastic idea. His grin is wide and a bit wild as he says, “Bet you’d like it if I fucked you, eh?”

For a second he worries that he’s actually killed Harry, because the man goes tense as a bow against him and then stifles a painfully wounded noise in the back of his throat.

“Your ass is perfect for it,” Eggsy continues, spurred on by that reaction. “Bet it feels just as tight as it looks.”

A hand fists itself in his hair again, tipping his head back so that their eyes meet. Harry-- bless his heart-- is visibly trying to reign himself in. His lips are parted, his hair slightly mussed from where he’d been pressing against Eggsy’s neck. His eyes are twin pools of black with only a thin ring of golden brown around each.

“You,” he grits out, “are a _menace_.” He presses their lips together for another fierce kiss, one that’s over as quickly as it’s begun and leaves Eggsy’s head spinning. “And you had better keep your word.”

Eggsy grins. “Don’t a gentleman always make good on his promises?” he asks innocently, and the smile Harry flashes him in return is electric.

 

\-----

 

+1

“Do not even _think_ of moving from that spot.”

Eggsy freezes. It’s a weird position to have to hold: he’s lying back on Harry’s bed, propped up on his elbows as he watches Harry peel off the last of his clothes. The fingers of his right hand are sticky with half-dried lube, and he grimaces a bit at the tacky feeling. “You’re askin’ a lot of me, babe,” he complains, because _really._ Watching Harry step out of his boxers and just _stand_ there, perfectly out of reach, is driving him crazy.

Harry looks down at him from hooded eyes; they seem to shine in the darkened room. “I’ve waited too long for this not to savor it,” he says primly.

With a snort, Eggsy smiles and replies, “Yeah, like you weren’t gaggin’ for it when I jus’ had three fingers in your--”

“ _Unimportant._ ” Oh, is that a hint of _embarrassment_ on his dear mentor’s face? Eggsy smothers his grin a little-- he may be _loving_ this, but he doesn’t want to seem like an asshole-- and nods indulgently.

“Right,” he says. “Okay.” There’s the soft padding sound of bare feet against carpet as Harry finally approaches, hovering over him but still not _touching._ The intensely focused look he’s fixing Eggsy with makes him bite his lip and fidget with the sheets. “C’mon, bruv,” he pleads. “Don’ leave me hanging.”

“Hush.” Harry doesn’t move a single muscle. His eyes flick up briefly to meet Eggsy’s-- it sends a bolt of heat up his spine, to see the want there-- before sliding down his body. It feels like a physical touch, just as methodical and concentrated as everything else Harry does. Eggsy feels himself flush as he watches those eyes take in every inch of him: his tense shoulders and arms, supporting his weight; his bare chest and stomach; his hips that can’t seem to stay _still._

And then that gaze dips below his waist, and the noise Harry makes is _hungry._ It shoots straight to Eggsy’s cock, making him twitch and suck in a sharp breath through parted lips. “Like what you see, yeah?” he asks in a voice that’s more than a little strained. He feels so _exposed_ under Harry’s scrutiny, and fuck if that isn’t doing things to him.

By way of an answer, Harry suddenly kneels before him. His eyes are still focused below Eggsy’s waist. “Very much,” he breathes, and at the same moment reaches out to wrap one of his perfect hands around Eggsy’s dick.

 _God_ , those fingers are just as talented as he’d always imagined. Except now it’s the real thing, not Eggsy rubbing one off guiltily in his bunk, and it is _so_ much better that he could’ve hoped. Without meaning to Eggsy arches his back, his thighs spreading as he presses up, up into the touch, seeking more. “ _God_ , yes,” he hisses out as Harry does this _thing_ with his wrist, twisting it so that sparks of pleasure burst behind his eyelids.

“So perfect,” he hears Harry murmur. He sounds almost reverent, and Eggsy feels his flush spread down his chest at the praise. A comment like that coming from someone as attractive as _Harry_ makes his stomach tie itself in knots.

Because Eggsy’s thoughts are so fuzzy with arousal-- and because something about Harry makes him burn to tell the truth, to bare his deepest thoughts, he replies, “Not as perfect as you.” It comes out sounding a lot more raw than he’d intended, so he’s thankful when the next stroke of Harry’s hand wipes his mind clean.

He hears a quiet, breathless laugh from between his legs. “To use your own words, Eggsy,” Harry says, “have you _seen_ yourself?”

Eggsy grins in spite of himself. His eyes open (but when had he closed them?) and he tilts his head forward to get a good look at the older man. Just as focused as ever, Harry’s brows are drawn together and his lips are parted as he watches his own hand move. He seems completely taken with the way Eggsy’s cock disappears into his fist. With a quick glance to the side, Eggsy sees Harry’s other hand clenched tightly in the sheets.

 _He’s tryin’ not to touch himself._ Jesus, Harry is gonna be the end of him. “A-As much as-- _shit_ \-- as much as I love this,” Eggsy begins, biting out a curse as Harry does that _wrist_ thing again, God, “We should really move on. At this rate I’m gonna be coming like a bloody teenager.”

If the way his eyes flash is any indication, the image seems to appeal to Harry _very_ much. Thankfully he does still his hand, though, and rises to his feet. “I have absolutely no intention of letting you off that easily,” he says, lips turned up in a smile.

Mirroring the expression perfectly, Eggsy shoots back, “Wasn’t plannin’ on it.”

Finally, _finally_ Harry climbs onto the bed, immediately straddling Eggsy’s thighs. He looks so beautiful there, glasses askew and hair mussed and eyes bright, his head and shoulders blocking out the light above them: a perfect eclipse.

This whole time he’s seemed so collected, but now the cracks in his composure are becoming visible, his gaze _burning_ in its intensity. A pair of hands press Eggsy back into the sheets and stay there, a grounding weight against his chest. Harry looks down at him and says, “Ready?”

It must’ve been a rhetorical question, because no sooner is the word out of his mouth than he’s sinking down on Eggsy’s cock, head bent forward and eyes screwed shut in pleasure.

“Jesus _fuck,_ ” Eggsy groans, hands flying up to grip Harry by the thighs. He can feel the muscles there, tense beneath his fingers.

Harry moans in response, and his legs shake as he begins to move.

The two of them need a moment to adjust to their positions, so their rhythm starts out more than a bit shaky. It hardly takes them long at all, though; as it turns out, fucking is a lot like fighting, and the two of them have fought together enough as Kingsman that moving in tandem feels like second nature. Once they’ve figured that out-- God, it’s _perfect_.

As Eggsy’d expected, Harry fucks just like he does everything else: with complete control. It’s a fucking _sight_ to watch his muscles coil as he rolls his hips, sheathing Eggsy’s cock in that tight, wet heat over and over. He barely even needs support; his strong arms brace his weight and his long legs keep him balanced, each movement precise.

Arousal rends through Eggsy’s body like lightning as, on one especially deep thrust, Harry finally loses his balance. Clearly he hits the man’s prostate because without warning the body around him clenches _tight_ and Harry moans, open mouthed and unabashed for the first time.

“ _There,_ ” he hisses, eyes wild as he gazes down at Eggsy from under fluttering lashes.

Eggsy doesn’t need to be told twice: he grips Harry’s thighs in his hands, cradling his weight, and bucks his hips up with as much force as he can muster.

Above him, Harry arches beautifully. His whole body has gone tense and taught, chin tilted back to expose the line of his neck. With each thrust, bits of him seem to fall away. Gone is the control, gone is the calm façade, now replaced with ragged breaths and a heaving chest and fingers that clench in the sheets underneath them.

“So fuckin’ good, unh--” Eggsy bites his lip, tastes the coppery tang of blood. “Fuckin’ _amazing_.” It’s not really the most poetic thing he could’ve said, but it’s too difficult for him to think of much else. His brain seems to have narrowed in on Harry, Harry, all the sensations associated with him and him alone. Eggsy couldn’t bring himself to be more eloquent if he tried.

In fact, he’d much rather focus on trying to make Harry fall apart at the seams.

He very nearly succeeds when, with a rustle of sheets and the slide of skin against skin, Harry shifts positions. Hands braced closer to Eggsy’s own hips, he leans back into each thrust eagerly, trembles when they hit that perfect spot inside him. Their thrusts are hard enough now that it makes him bounce, cock twitching against his thigh and drooling precum over his skin.

Pleasure reaches a fever pitch inside him, roiling and tightening in his gut, and Eggsy clenches his teeth against the feeling. Now both of them have completely lost it: their rhythm falls apart as everything just becomes too _much_ , too _good_.

“Harry, I’m--”

“ _Yes_ ,” comes the harsh reply. The heated, glazed look in Harry’s eyes sends another thrill down his spine, molten hot, shaking him to his bones.

With a final harsh roll of hips, their bodies moving together, Harry goes rigid. Come stripes across his sweat-slicked thighs and Eggsy’s reddened chest. The tight vice of Harry’s body around him forces a wounded sound from his throat-- God, he must sound like he’s _dying_ \-- and then Eggsy’s own climax hits him and he whites out for a few perfect, blissful moments.

When his vision clears, he blinks rapidly and looks up to see Harry still sitting in place. He’s slumped forward now, his body gone pliant from his orgasm; his hands are again braced on Eggsy’s chest and Eggsy feels the rapid beat of his heart against those splayed fingers.

“Christ,” he swears. His throat feels like it’s been rubbed down with sandpaper. “We shoulda done that a _lot_ sooner.”

Above him, Harry gives a tired huff of laughter. His eyes are more alert now that they’re not clouded with lust, but he looks fucking _wiped._ The hair he normally keeps so perfectly parted now hangs in a fringe over his forehead, curling with sweat. It’s a look Eggsy could _definitely_ get used to seeing.

“It has been a long time coming,” he agrees breathlessly. “After the sparring match, I was sure you’d give in.”

Eggsy rolls his eyes, tracing lazy patterns over Harry’s skin. He winces as the man finally shifts his weight and lifts off of him. “You’re a right bastard, you know that?” he jibes. “You knew all this fuckin’ time?”

Leveling him with a stare that very clearly says, “of _course_ I did,” Harry allows his lips to curve up into a wry smile.

“ _Fuck_ me.” Eggsy thumps his head back against the bed with a harsh groan. Not that he can really be _that_ put out, when things still ended up like _this_. Grabbing blindly for the sheets, he uses them to wipe away the come staining his skin. Harry eyes his movements with a wrinkled nose, but doesn’t comment. “And here I thought that the martini incident was what gave me away,” Eggsy laments. “But I been transparent since the beginning.”

A hum of assent from Harry as he lies down at Eggsy’s left. “Indeed. Did I not say you were lacking in subtlety?”

“You _did_ , yes, thank you.” He gives Harry a half-hearted shove for that last comment. Then, because it’s sort of hard to resist the warmth of the body next to his, Eggsy curls into Harry’s chest with a sigh.

Their conversation wanes into a comfortable silence. Harry’s breathing is a slow, even rhythm against his cheek, and when a hand comes up to rest at the small of his back, Eggsy smiles. Tilting his head just enough to catch Harry’s eye, he says, “This mean I get to stare at you whenever I want now?”

Harry laughs, and the sound makes Eggsy’s heart beat hard against his rib cage. “Darling,” he says warmly, “you can do much more than look.”

**Author's Note:**

> So this took me WAY longer than it probably should have, mostly due to classes and the billion other things I'm trying to juggle at once. And for those of you who've read my Kinktober fic for Hartwin, this actually is NOT the other fic I mentioned I was working on. I... don't really know where this one came from lol. But regardless, I think it turned out alright, and I hope you all enjoy! Stay tuned for more!!!!!


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